


the arrow that flies, the bow that is stable

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Healing, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: Clint comes home. Clint recovers.This is the first week.





	the arrow that flies, the bow that is stable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlphaFlyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/gifts).



> This turned out a little bit more angsty than I intended, but I hope it still works for you. <3
> 
> (Warnings, if you need them, for nightmares, panic attacks, and mild self-harm.)
> 
>  
> 
> "The archer sees the make upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.  
> Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness.  
> For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He also loves the bow that is stable." - Kahlil Gibran  
> 

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_I am writing to refer Clinton Francis Barton for assessment of post traumatic stress disorder, memory loss, and anxiety. Clint is a fit, active 38 year old with no previous history of neurological symptoms. Onset of symptoms began approximately one month ago, following a classified mission under the orders of Director Nicholas J. Fury as part of the Avengers Initiative._

_I have been treating Clint on a bi-weekly basis for the last two months, mainly for trigger situations, sleep issues, and stress management. I have suspended further treatment until Clint has undergone a full medical assessment._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Dr. Willa Pritchard, SHIELD Medical_  

 

* * *

 

“It’s like they’re saying they’ve given up,” Laura says when Natasha hands her the typed letter during breakfast. Lila and Cooper are sitting in the living room, engrossed in morning cartoons and crunching dry Lucky Charms between their teeth.

“Not exactly,” Natasha replies, sitting back in her chair. “It reads like that, I know.” _Fucking psychologists._ “What they’re really saying is that they’ve done all they’ve can for him. He either needs to do the rest himself, or…”

“Or?” Laura prompts. Natasha sighs, reaching for the coffee she’s been nursing since she woke up.

“Or we do it for him.”

Laura huffs out a laugh. “Bringing him home when he’s mentally unstable and have him be around two young kids.” She pauses, shaking her head. “He’d never agree to that.”

“But he wouldn’t be alone,” Natasha reminds her, putting a hand over Laura’s. “And he’s alone now.”

Laura stays quiet for a long time, trills of sing-a-longs and Lila’s laugh the only sounds breaking the silence.

“I went to graduate school for psychology,” she says finally. “Not mental health practice.”

“Same thing,” Natasha says with a shrug and a half-hearted smile. “I’m not exactly well-versed in this, either. My past was…” She stops, swallowing down the rest of her words. “My past was pretty much defined by the opposite practice.”

Laura looks away at that, and Natasha moves closer in her chair.

“They can’t do anything else for him at SHIELD -- they _won’t_ ,” Natasha continues in a low voice. “The best thing we can do is bring him here and let him heal somewhere that’s familiar to him. Somewhere he’s less likely to be triggered by ghosts of people he won’t forgive himself for betraying. Besides, I know you want him home.”

That seems to shake Laura out of whatever trance she’s been in since Natasha started talking. She nods slowly, tears collecting underneath the brim of her eyes, which are heavy with bags that indicate no sleep and too much stress.

“What if we can’t fix him?”

Natasha smiles sadly. “We’re not trying to fix him,” she says, taking a drink of coffee. “We’re just trying to help him.”

 

***

 

When Natasha arrives at SHIELD, she goes straight to the third floor of the medical wing. She walks past the recovery rooms and sterile testing quarters that she knows like the back of her hand, the ones that she’s used to going to when she comes here, and meets the woman behind the desk with what she’s convinced herself is her kindest smile. It always unnerves her, coming here, not because she hates therapists and what they stand for, but because there’s oppressive silence and bright lights and white, unpolished furniture -- everything that Natasha thinks is the opposite of what people should be subjected to when they sit in a waiting room, trying to work up the courage to talk about their feelings. She had done it once, against her will, and while things like Clint’s hand on her leg and his overall presence had been gentle, the bright lights had haunted her dreams for days.

“Clint Barton,” she says to the girl, whose name tag reads “Susan” with a small heart sticker pasted on each end. Susan pops a wad of gum as she leans back and grabs a folder from the desk, handing it over.

“Yeah. Sign here.”

Natasha briefly wonders if the standard quality of SHIELD’s personnel have gone down in the ten years since she’s been here -- she doesn’t remember the receptionists being quite so unappealing -- but she disregards the thought as she opens the folder and scrawls her name over the papers, trading them for another stack of files.

“Have a good day,” Susan says tonelessly. Natasha involuntarily shudders, leaving the psychiatric ward in her wake. When she walks into Clint’s room, she finds him sitting on the bed swinging his legs back and forth, his bag packed and neatly placed by the door.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided it was time to come and spring me from lock-up.”

“I even signed the papers, so it’s not like I’m breaking you out of here against anyone’s orders,” Natasha says lightly, handing him the folder. “You’re not still mad that I punched you in the face, are you?”

“Nah.” Clint shrugs. “That one I can forgive you for. Got him out of my head, after all. The bite marks, on the other hand, those are a different story...and I think my bruises still have bruises.”

Natasha cringes, her eyes flitting to the mark on his forehead that’s still swelling and then to the bandage over his wrist, the one that she knows hides the scars of what her teeth have done to his skin.

“Sorry,” she says quietly. “It was…”

“What you had to do,” Clint says, his voice a little too perfunctory. “I know. Don’t apologize, Tasha.”

 _Tasha._ Hearing him slip so seamlessly into the sentiment that she doesn’t allow anyone except Clint and Laura to use in her presence makes her heart hurt, and it immediately drives her mind to the dark, wobbling catwalk in the bowels of the helicarrier.

“We should get going,” Natasha says, breaking a suddenly uncomfortable silence and pushing the memory from her mind before it overwhelms her. “You’re all packed?”

Clint nods. “I’m going home, you know. I don’t need much.”

Natasha gives him a small smile. “I know,” she says as he gets up. She suddenly can’t help herself, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck, feeling him stiffen before he relaxes in her arms. Natasha breathes out an unconscious sigh of relief; it’s not so much Clint’s lingering anxiety that’s made him pull back, she knows. It’s his hesitancy that by touching her, he’s going to hurt her.

“Come on,” Natasha says as she pulls away. “I promised Laura we’d call when we were on our way to the airport.” She picks up Clint’s bag and walks out the door, hearing his soft footsteps as he follows slowly behind.

 

* * *

 

“Where are you?”

Clint knows who’s asking the question. He _knows_. It’s not Natasha and it’s not Laura, it’s the woman with the green scarf who still smells like the tuna fish she ate for lunch.

“Underground.”

“Underground, where?”

Clint swallows, taking a deep breath. “I’m not sure. Didn’t need to know. Didn’t ask.”

“Okay.” The voice is quieter now, and more soothing. “What are you doing?”

_Not Natasha. Not Laura._

“I’m…” He squeezes his already closed eyes more tightly, engulfing himself in darkness. Darkness always helps. In the darkness, there’s no blue, and the voice can’t find him. “I’m looking for information. He wants me to find something. He says he’ll kill everyone if I don’t help him.”

“Who is everyone, Agent Barton?”

“Everyone,” Clint repeats, his chest seizing. “Natasha. My family. He knows...he doesn’t know about them. I tell him about Natasha so he doesn’t have to know. I tell him about Natasha and he says it’s not enough. He says I have to work faster. I need to find more information. He’ll kill everyone, he says he’ll kill everyone.”

He’s back in a mind that’s filled with too much static and none of his own thoughts. _Work faster, Barton_ and he swipes the screen with more vigor; Loki’s watching him more closely now, cold blue eyes burning his fingers and goddammit, weren’t these supposed to be _Frost Giants_?

“Agent Barton. Agent Barton…. _Clint_.”

Clint opens his eyes as the chilling English tenor fades in his ears, surprised to find the world awash in color again, surprised to find silence. When he looks down, he realizes that his arms are tingling, red marks dotting the places where his fingernails have torn away the skin.

“That will be all for today.”

 

* * *

 

“Jesus Christ, you couldn’t even spring for priority seating?” Clint asks as he squints at his boarding pass. They’re moving slowly through the security line at a pace that Natasha is ready to scream about and she rolls her eyes, throwing her jacket in a large grey bin.

“In case you didn’t know, Fury’s not exactly happy with me taking you away, despite the circumstances.” She sighs. “I had to fight to get a decent flight as it was.”

Clint makes a face. “I’ll forgive you if you’ll let me order a drink on SHIELD’s tab.”

Natasha whirls around in line and shoots him a look. “You haven’t been, have you? Drinking?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, she raises an eyebrow. “ _Clint_.”

“It helps me fall asleep, okay?” He shrugs off his own jacket and shoves it on top of hers. “I’m not like, puking in the bathroom or anything.”

Natasha slips off her shoes, pushing as much of her hair as she can into a ponytail. “No drinks on the plane,” she says shortly, shoving him ahead of her in line. “Or at your own house.”

“What, are you gonna send me back into medical?” His voice turns bitter and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“I know where you sleep, Barton.”

The man ahead of Clint steps into the body scanner, and when he walks out, Clint’s motioned forward with two blue-gloved hands. Natasha watches him approach the large swirling cylinder, and watches as he situates himself inside with the instructions to stick his hands over his head.

There’s something wrong with the way he’s walking, though, and Natasha can tell. He’s moving slower than usual, and not responding quickly enough to the orders of the TSA agents. Natasha quickly shoves her own bin down the conveyer belt, ignoring the shouts as she strides quickly through the scanner and grabs Clint’s arm, steadying him as he starts to sway forward.

“I need you to move,” Natasha says curtly, cutting off the agent that tries to “ma’am” her into listening to security policies, forcing Clint down onto a bench and avoiding the eyes of other travelers.

“Hey.” She sits down next to him and puts her hand on his face, turning it towards her, trying to ignore the chill that shoots down her spine at seeing the vacant expression behind grey-blue. “Hey, Clint. Come back.”

He blinks at her voice and she breaths a sigh of relief as his vision clears, color coming back to his face.

“You okay?” Natasha asks quietly, and he shakes his head.

“Yeah. Fine. I --” He stops, looking around in confusion, as if he’s forgotten where he is. “What happened?”

Natasha puts her hand on his knee, squeezing gently. “You freaked out back there.”

Clint grimaces. “I did?”

Natasha furrows her brow. “You don’t remember?”

He bites his lip and closes his eyes. “People were talking to me but I couldn’t hear them...I couldn’t hear anything. I just kept seeing _him._ It’s like I was frozen.”

Natasha sighs. “You’re not exactly keeping yourself discreet here.” She tries to keep her voice light, but she knows she can’t help the fractures breaking through. Clint moves his gaze to the security line.

“I’m surprised they didn’t arrest me.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly help matters, running through the body scanner after you like that. But I figure once I show them my SHIELD credentials and threaten to put my boss on the phone, they won’t want to make a big fuss.” She pauses. “Do you know what triggered you back there?”

Clint looks instantly guilty. “The gloves, I think. Blue hands, and then being in that device. It was like being in his mind all over again.”

Natasha’s insides twist together at his words. “Look, Clint. If you’re not okay getting on a plane, we’ll go another way. We’ll drive, or take a train, or --”

“No,” Clint says firmly, raising his head. “Can I just go home, Nat? Please?” His spine is as rigid as his voice and Natasha nods slowly, putting her hand on his shoulder.

“Okay,” she says with a small nod. “Okay, Clint. Let’s get you home.”

 

***

 

The flight to Iowa isn’t that long, but after the mess at security, Natasha’s decided she isn’t taking any chances. She forces Clint to take a sleeping pill once they’ve gotten safely onto the plane and then tries to use the time alone to try to relax, though she finds she can’t stop herself from glancing over every five minutes to make sure that he’s still out cold. Even in his sleep, Natasha notices there’s an unrest, a twitching nervousness that he seems unable to shake.

It’s something she’s not used to, seeing him like this: unraveled, not in control of himself. But moreso, Natasha’s unnerved because she’s used to Clint being steady, even when he’s taken hits. He was her stable hand, and she was the firecracker -- that’s how it had always been, and that’s what Natasha was used to.

 _What did Loki do to you?_ She pushes a stray piece of hair out of his eyes, silently throwing back the question he had asked her after he had woken up. There was the obvious guilt, the fact that he hadn’t been in control of his own mind, the killing and blind following of orders that caused his current nightmares. But there’s more, Natasha knows there is, and she has no idea how to siphon those things out of him.

 _Like poison_ , she thinks grimly. It had felt like that when she first came to SHIELD, burdened with toxic memories that she had tried to remove by doing everything from running away to dragging a razor across her skin.

 _You gotta get it sucked out, Romanoff,_ Clint had told her when she had broken down in frustration, another failed session of therapy gone wrong with little progress on either end of the couch. _You can’t force it._

Laura’s waiting for both of them when they make their way out of the terminal and off of the elevator at baggage claim, holding Lila in her arms.

“Did you drug my husband again?” Laura asks with a small smile as they walk forward, leaning over so that Lila can stretch away from her body.

“Nat!”

Natasha gathers Lila in her arms and kisses her while Lila tugs at a few red curls. “No tranquilizer this time,” she promises, matching Laura’s grin.

“Daddy!”

Natasha passes Lila over so that Clint can hold his daughter and notices that for all his tiredness, his posture instantly changes when the little girl hugs him. For a moment, she can almost convince herself that they’re coming back from a long mission, not that he’s on the verge of a breakdown after having an alien invade his brain.

“Hey, sweetheart. I missed you.”

“Me more.”

“Bet not,” he teases, kissing her on the cheek. Lila lets out a delighted shriek and throws her arms around Clint’s neck again.

“She’s happy,” Laura says quietly, folding her arms as she watches the interaction. “This is the longest he’s been away since she was born.”

“Not by choice,” Natasha mutters, because New Mexico was only supposed to have taken three months at the most. Even after New York, it only would’ve added an extra week to the timetable if things hadn’t gone south with the tesseract. “How are you doing?”

Laura breathes in and out slowly. “Okay. I’m okay.” She starts following Clint as he walks towards baggage carousel and Natasha falls into step beside her, reaching for her hand.

“You got my text? About what happened at the airport?”

Laura nods. “Yes. Is he -- was he okay on the flight?”

Natasha nods back. “He was,” she confirms. Laura still looks uncertain, so Natasha slows, pulling Laura to a stop along with her.

“It’ll be okay,” she promises. “It’ll be hard, but I’ll help.” She glances up, where Clint is still holding Lila in his arms, waiting for his luggage. “It’s good that he’s home.”

“It is,” Laura agrees quietly. “It’s good you’re _both_ home.”

 

***

 

When they return to the farm, with a stop on the way home to pick up Cooper from his friend’s house, Laura convinces her daughter to let Clint nap while she prepares dinner. While Lila busies herself with a drawing and Cooper takes a shower, Natasha sneaks upstairs and finds Clint in the bedroom. While she’d changed into something more comfortable that didn’t smell or feel like travelwear, he’s still in the clothes he’d been wearing on the plane.

“Clint?” She closes the door behind her, edging towards the center of the room. Clint turns around.

“Laura and I got married when we were in our 20’s,” he says a little wistfully. Natasha nods, because she wasn’t at their wedding, but she knows so much about both of their lives that she sometimes forgets that fact.

“Yeah.”

“I love her, you know?” He picks up a picture from the dresser and then puts it down. “I always wanted to be the person who gave her a better life than what she deserved. I wanted her...I wanted her to believe I was worth it.”

“Clint…” Natasha trails off, thinning her lips, suddenly realizing where this descent into self-loathing is going. “This is hard, okay? This sucks, and it’s hard, and you _have_ to level out. But don’t think for a second that this is going to make her love you any less.”

“I don’t,” Clint says heavily, but Natasha can tell he’s not entirely convinced. She sits down on the bed and puts her hand on the mattress.

“Come here,” she says softly. “Come sit with me.”

He tears his gaze away from the picture and moves slowly, sitting down. She takes his hand, running her fingers along the ridges of his knuckles.

“I’m not making you talk to me all the time,” Natasha says finally. “Because I do trust you. But I need you to be able to give me a sign, _something_ , just to let me know you’re okay.”

“I will,” Clint says quietly and Natasha raises her voice.

“I’m serious, Clint. I took you out of SHIELD against their orders because they won’t work with you anymore, not unless you get a psychiatric assessment.” She pauses, and Clint snorts quietly.

“Let’s not forget the days where _you_ refused therapy.”

“I know I did. But you’ve _done_ therapy,” Natasha argues. “Unless you’ve been skipping out on your sessions without telling me.”

Clint shakes his head, and Natasha scoots closer. “I took you out of there because I believed that this is what you needed. But your wife is here, and your kids are here. And I need to know that if you’re not okay, I’m going to be the first one to know so that I can step in, before something happens that makes me regret this decision.”

Clint lets out a shaky breath at her words. “Not Laura.”

“You can tell Laura,” Natasha acknowledges. “You _should_ tell Laura if you’re not okay. But if you need _me_ , you need to let me know. I can’t mindread you all the time.”

“I know,” Clint says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I promise, Nat -- I will.”

“Good.” Natasha puts her hand on his cheek. “I trust you, you know.”

Clint laughs shallowly. “I almost killed you. How can you trust me if I can’t even trust myself?”

Natasha gives him a sad smile. “Because you’re my partner, and you’re Laura’s husband, and I _know_ you. We’ll work on this, Clint. Together.”

 

* * *

 

“Tell me where you are.”

“I’m...in my house,” Clint murmurs. He can feel the sweat breaking out over his neck as he says the words and tries to ignore the cold, clammy feeling that crawls over his skin.

“Are you alone?”

_The voice of the woman in the green scarf, who smells like tuna fish. Not Laura. Not Natasha._

“No.”

“Who else is there?”

“He…” _Words on your tongue. Say them. Why can’t you say them out loud? No one is restricting your speech_. “He’s there. He says we’ve taken New York, but now he’s going to make me pay.”

“And how is he going to do that?”

 _Slowly. Intimately. In every way he knows I fear._ “He’s going to make me watch. He’s going to make me tell my partner to kill them. He’s going to make me --”

“Okay, Agent Barton,” and this time, when he opens his eyes, there’s no blood on his skin, just tears that he can’t seem to control. “That’s enough, for now.”

 

* * *

 

“Is daddy sick?” Lila asks when Laura eases her into bed, handing over her favorite rabbit. Laura frowns, trying to figure out how to answer.

“Kind of. He’s not feeling very well because of work.”

“Oh.” Lila looks confused and then smiles. “Can I help make it better? Like when daddy kisses my booboos?”

 _If only you could,_ Laura finds herself thinking, hugging her daughter a little tighter. “Maybe in a little bit,” she says, pulling the covers over her. She kisses Lila on the head and then walks over to Cooper, who’s huddled under the covers with a book and a flashlight.

“Lights out,” Laura says firmly when she pulls the covers back to find Cooper’s guilty expression. He grudgingly puts his book on the floor as Laura tucks him in again and turns to leave the room.

“What’s wrong with dad?”

Laura closes her eyes with one hand on the knob. “Dad’s just having a hard time right now,” she says, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“But _why_?” Cooper asks suspiciously. Laura bites down on her tongue.

“He just is,” she answers. “I’ll tell him to come say goodnight, if you want.”

Cooper nods, and when Laura leaves the room, she finds Clint in the bathroom. He’s staring down the medicine cabinet in a way that makes her feel uneasy; neither her or Natasha knew exactly what his triggers were, the things that seemed obvious and also weren’t at the same time. Still, at Natasha’s request, Laura had removed most of the prescription medication from the shelves as well as any sort of nail clippers or razors, in addition to the few bottles of wine and cases of beer she routinely stored in the fridge.

“You coming to bed?” She reaches for her toothbrush and Clint looks up, startled out of his gaze.

“Yeah. I just...are the kids asleep?”

“Theoretically, in that I just put them down. But they’re still awake if you wanted to say goodnight,” Laura says with a small smile, rocking up on her toes to kiss him. Clint kisses her back, wrapping his hands around her waist and holding her close.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Laura says as he continues to cling to her. She rests her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. “I needed you here.”

“I’m sorry I stayed away,” he murmurs, his voice pressed into her hair. “I missed everything.”

“Not everything,” Laura says, pulling away. “I promise that there’s still a few ‘first’ moments that you’re going to be here to see.”

Clint manages a smile and Laura notices that his eyes, though clear, are nearly half-lidded in exhaustion. She doesn’t hesitate to wonder how much of that is from the drugs that are still working their way out of his system, or the fact that he now just seems tired all the time -- tired of thinking about the things that probably never leave his mind, even when he sleeps.

“How’s Cooper?”

Laura hums under her breath. “Good. He’s doing well in school. I’m not sure if he told you, but his latest obsession is dinosaurs.”

Clint looks impressed. “Dinosaurs, huh?”

“Yes.” Laura’s mouth lifts in a half-grin. “In fact, he thinks that they can be found if he digs around in the yard. I’m not sure where he got that idea from. He probably picked it up from someone at school, because it couldn’t _possibly_ be from his father, right?”

“Erm.” Clint winces. “I think I might’ve mentioned something about dinosaurs last time we talked.”

Laura leans forward, kissing him on the cheek. “Well, I told him that he probably wouldn’t find much, but that he was welcome to look. So I’ll be sure to blame you when I get a lot of presents that include handfuls of dirt.”

Clint laughs, and it’s a short and forced sound, but at least it’s _something_. Laura lets hints of relief spread through her insides, calming her.

 _Find things that ground him, remind him of what’s normal in his life_ , Natasha had suggested. _He loves his kids._ _He loves you. That’s what he fights for._

“Gonna go say goodnight,” Clint says suddenly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he lets go of Laura. She nods, kissing him again, and watches him walk away. Laura finishes up in the bathroom and meets Natasha in the hallway.

“I’m taking the couch,” Natasha says, and Laura doesn’t have to ask why she’s not using the guest bedroom like she normally does. If by some chance Clint _does_ end up out of bed, she’ll hear it better from downstairs then she would from next door.

“He went to say goodnight to the kids.”

“I know.” Natasha smiles. “I was just in there. You’re right, they missed him.”

Laura closes her eyes against Natasha’s face. “You’re not going to give him anything?”

“To sleep?” Natasha looks concerned, but shakes her head. “I learned the hard way that medicating yourself out of your nightmares isn’t exactly the smartest option. But if it gets bad, I will.” She pauses, playing with the hem of her shirt, and looks up as Clint emerges from the room across the hall, closing the door quietly behind him.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, bumping his hip into Natasha’s own.

“Nothing you’d be too interested in,” Laura replies casually. “Just Nat telling me all your latest stories for blackmail purposes.”

“Oh. Well, in _that_ case, I might as well throw in the towel,” Clint teases. Natasha crosses her arms.

“Technically, Laura doesn’t know about Kazakhstan.”

“Technically,” Clint mutters. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, the kids are actually almost asleep.”

“Good,” Laura says, running a hand through her hair, before glancing at Natasha again. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Natasha winks. “I’m pretty sure I know my way around your house by now.”

Clint steps forward to hug Natasha, and Laura notices that his face is shadowed with something that definitely could be classified as fear, as if he’s afraid to touch her. She files it away for a time when she knows she can bring it up without the worry of triggering him.

“Night, Tasha.”

 

***

 

Despite being exhausted and the fact that usually, being at the farm means she sleeps better than ever, Natasha barely gets any rest. She jerks awake every so often at the slightest sound of creaking beds or floorboards, lights being turned on upstairs, or anything that might signify that she needs to be up and ready to deal with Clint’s mind. She finally manages to fall asleep somewhere around four, and wakes up to the smell of coffee and burned toast.

“Sorry,” Laura apologizes when Natasha more or less stumbles into the kitchen. Cooper’s sitting at the table, engrossed in a book that’s propped up with the help of his cereal bowl, and Natasha ruffles his hair before taking a mug from Laura. “Needed to get the kids breakfast. Lila already fell back asleep an hour ago. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Natasha replies honestly, sipping her coffee. “You okay?”

Laura’s eyes are rounded with heavy bags, her forehead is lined, and her whole face gives off a look of pure exhaustion. “Yeah,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “It was just a long night.”

Natasha nods. “It’ll be like that, for awhile,” she says carefully. She doesn’t have to ask if Clint’s still asleep, because she figures given Laura’s tiredness means he barely got himself any rest before sunrise.

“I know.” Laura brings a plate of waffles to the table. “I’m thinking of taking the kids to the fair later.”

It’s a vague way, Natasha knows, of telling her that she’s planning to leave the two of them alone for the day. Lila would probably ask why her father wasn’t coming -- Clint loves those stupid fairs more than he would admit to anyone -- but she’s as aware as Laura is that a disappointed child is better than a frightened one, should Clint freak out in front of his children.

“Might be a good idea,” Natasha replies, meeting her eyes while Cooper remains silent, fixated on his book. She can hear some creaks and a faint rush that sounds like a toilet flushing from upstairs, and in the pause in conversation there’s a sudden heavy thump.

Natasha meets Laura’s eyes instantly and the two adults rise, Natasha moving more quickly than Laura, who slows her pace so as not to alert Cooper of anything suspicious. When she reaches the top of the stairs, the first thing she notices is the empty bedroom. The second thing she notices is the door to the bathroom that’s tightly closed. Natasha puts her hand on the knob, hesitating as Laura comes up behind her.

“Clint?”

There’s no answer and Natasha presses her ear against the door, straining to pick up any kind of sound. She can hear the rushing water of what she assumes is the shower, or at least the sink.

“Clint?”

“I removed everything,” Laura says from behind in a low voice, and Natasha’s not surprised her mind’s gone to the same place. Laura puts her hand on Natasha’s arm and Natasha puts her mouth by the door again.

“Clint, it’s Nat. And Laura,” she adds, knowing that there’s no way she can shove his away from this. “We’re coming in, okay? Is that okay?”

There’s still no answer, so Natasha tries the knob, expecting it to be locked. She’s surprised to find it’s not, and she opens the door slowly, stepping inside the bathroom.

It’s the shower that’s been going, Natasha sees, her eyes zeroing in on the spray that’s still running, despite the fact that the curtain has been thrown open, water splashing out of the rim of the tub. The mess of various shampoo bottles and body washes that routinely line the ceramic lip have been knocked over; some are in the tub and some are on the floor, and the big shower caddy that hangs over the faucet is lying in a heap near the drain. Clint’s sitting on the floor in his boxers and Laura makes a noise behind her, pushing past Natasha and kneeling next to him.

“Clint,” Laura says quietly, keeping her hands to herself, and Natasha takes in the way his head is bowed towards the tile. She takes a deep breath and gets down next to Laura.

“Water’s too cold,” he says, his tone edgy, and Natasha immediately stills with one hand outstretched.

_Cold water. So much for unearthing triggers._

“It’s okay,” Laura soothes, taking over and putting her hand on his arm. For a moment, Natasha wonders if she’s going to have to employ more serious tactics to deal with this situation but then he falls into Laura’s outstretched arms and she sits back on her heels, resting one hand gently on his back, an anchor and a reminder of what matters and what’s real.

 

* * *

 

“Where are you now?”

“A ship -- a boat -- no, a ship,” Clint murmurs, images fighting through the murky darkness of his brain. The voice that responds _hmmms_ quietly.

_Not Laura. Not Natasha._

“What are you doing?”

“I’m walking. Following orders. Killing.” _Leave none alive, and shoot to kill. You can make a kill shot, you know all of their secrets._ “There’s an engine room. I’ve already taken part of it down.”

“How?”

“Arrow. My arrows.” _Everything was taken from me, not only my mind, but my secrets, my skills. Every time I shoot an arrow I’m reminded of that one shot. The shot that Natasha said made Banner hulk out. The shot that almost killed her, and everyone else._

“And what do you feel?”

_Finish the job, Agent Barton._

“Cold,” he gasps, and suddenly he feels like he can’t breathe. His eyes fly open as he impulsively sucks in gulps of oxygen, and the woman in the green scarf is staring at him, her eyes gentle.

“Okay, Clint. Just breathe, okay? That’s fine for today.”

 

* * *

 

An hour or so after Laura’s left for the fair, Natasha finds him sitting on the porch, cleaned up and dressed and looking marginally better.

“Hey,” she says cautiously, coming up behind him. “How are you doing?”

Clint shrugs. “Okay. Did you know that an arrow can travel up to 225 feet per second with a recurve bow?”

“Yes,” Natasha says calmly. “Because you taught me that.”

“And the faster the arrow travels, the flatter the flight trajectory,” he continues. Natasha nods, watching him carefully.

“I know.”

“I haven’t seen my bow in weeks,” he says suddenly, and Natasha’s breath catches. She knows exactly where his bow is, because it was the first thing that she’d brought to the farm after they had cleaned up from New York. She’d hidden it in the attic, behind a box of Laura’s old clothing, in a place she knows he wouldn’t think to look. Not that it mattered -- technically, he hadn’t been given clearance to shoot again, though Natasha wasn’t going to stop him if he was willing to try.

“I know. Do you want to see it?”

Clint looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers, and Natasha can almost see the words written all over his face.

_Not if I’m reminded of how I used it to kill innocent people._

“Maybe later.”

“Okay,” she allows, settling in next to him. In the sunlight, she can see the faint line of bruises along his elbow from his fall in the bathroom earlier. “You said the water was too cold when you tried to take a shower. Was that all?”

Clint swallows and furrows his brow, as if he’s trying to remember what happened. “No,” he admits in a low voice. “The rushing of the water was...it’s like everything was amplified. It reminded me of the white noise that I had in my head, when he was controlling me.”

Natasha leans forward and glances over at him. “Was this happening at SHIELD?” she asks quietly. “These triggers?”

Clint shrugs. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not --”

“It’s not exact science. I know.” Natasha _knows_ , Natasha _remembers_ , she remembers how everything from the sight of a blade to a touch on her head had set her off, until she could reconcile the harsh memories with better ones: making herself look nice for her new job, Clint’s gentle touch as a comfort.

“Laura said I didn’t have to apologize for what happened.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You don’t,” she confirms, shaking her head. “This is your recovery, Clint. This isn’t you acting out because you want attention.”

He balls his hands into hard fists. “But I can’t help it.”

 _Can’t help apologizing, or can’t help slipping?_ Natasha thinks she knows the answer, but isn’t going to ask him to clarify right this second. She decides to ask the question she really came out here for instead.

“Where is it?”

Clint turns, puzzled. “Where’s what?”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “The knife that you stole from the kitchen drawer this morning. Can I see it?”

Clint winces and then reaches slowly into the back pocket of his jeans, unearthing the knife that’s been hidden by his long shirt. Natasha takes it by the handle; it’s a butter knife and seemingly harmless as far as weapons go, but she’s not taking any chances.

“Why did you take it, Clint?”

“Because.”

Natasha watches as his mouth moves in silence, like his brain is trying to figure out how to make words appear.

“Because it made you feel safe?”

When he doesn’t answer, she sighs again, and leans back in her chair. Because she _gets_ it. She gets knowing what it feels like to be alone, to be vulnerable, to have no protection against anything that could come grab you and pull you back in. Sometimes, you needed something tangible to hold onto. Sometimes, you needed a weapon, even if that weapon was something -- or someone -- else.

“I’m sorry,” he says, casting his gaze downward, and Natasha forces out a smile.

“I’m the Black Widow, Clint. I’ve also been your partner for over ten years. You have to do better than a butter knife if you want to try to kill me.”

He reaches for her hand, his palm shooting out and grabbing her fingers.

_Sometimes, you need something tangible to hold onto._

The knife slides from Natasha’s hand and clatters to the ground as she squeezes back.

 

***

 

“What did they do to you?” Laura asks while Clint sleeps, her voice soft against the whispering breeze of the open window. She wonders if one day, she’ll be able to close her eyes without feeling like her heart is going to jump out of her chest. Natasha had assured her that she would, though right now, it seems like that’s a promise that’s been made more out of hopefulness than optimism.

Natasha had shown her the knife. Laura had looked at the knife and tried to understand how the husband that smiled and laughed and played with her hair could feel so unbelievably scared that he had to carry around something resembling a weapon in the one place where he should feel safe.

“I did the same thing, you know,” Natasha says quietly. Laura turns to see her standing in the doorway.

“Did you?” Laura asks, because she only knows bits and pieces about Natasha’s past but she knows enough.

Natasha nods. “Yes. I carried weapons around with me the first few months after Clint brought me into SHIELD. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him...that’s the funny part, actually.” Her lips turn up in a faint grin. “I trusted him more than anyone. But I didn’t trust myself.”

“Oh,” Laura says quietly, looking down at Clint’s still form. For all intents and purposes, he’s asleep, but Laura can see the way his eyelids are twitching, indicating he’s not so dreamless as she wishes he would be. “So you’re saying he doesn’t trust himself?”

“I think…” Natasha hesitates, and then pauses. “We know him in different ways. You know the husband who would lay down his life to protect you and your children, who puts away all semblance of his work when he’s here, but you know he’s still competent enough to defend anything that threatens him. I know the partner who defines himself by a bow and arrow, who would rather overcompensate for his skills and his mental state than let himself feel like he’s let down his job or me.”

“He may be different things to you and me,” Laura responds, smoothing back Clint’s hair. “But he’s still someone we both love.”

Natasha nods and takes Laura’s hand.

“I know.” 

 

* * *

 

“What does he ask you? When you’re alone?”

_Not Natasha. Not Laura._

“He asks me about them. He asks me about her.” _You are valuable, Agent Barton. People don’t think you’re useful, but you are the most important person in this world._

“Who is her? Your wife? Your partner?”

“Both of them. He knows who I care about. He won’t let me leave until I give him what he needs.” _Protect Laura. Protect Laura, and Cooper, and Lila. Give him Natasha. Natasha can take care of herself. Give him Natasha._

“And what do you tell him?”

_He knows all I ever wanted in my life was validation and he’s using that. I know he is. I want to run away but I can’t. He says I can’t, so I don’t. Natasha -- Laura -- no, Natasha, tell him about Natasha._

“I tell him everything.”

“What exactly is everything?”

Clint lurches forward, hearing the loud scrape of the chair legs against the floor. The glass that he’s holding slips from his hand, shattering on the hardwood.

_“Thank you, Agent Barton. Now kneel for your master.”_

His eyes fly open and he realizes he’s lying on the floor, his face pressed into the dirty linoleum, his lips achingly sore from trying to say words he’s been repressing. The lady in the scarf ( _not Laura, not Natasha_ ) leans over and helps him up, and he finds that he can barely stand.

“Okay, Clint. I think that's good for today.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha is in the middle of folding laundry when a loud noise from downstairs jars her out of her thoughts. She leaves a half-folded shirt and a jumble of underwear on the covers, walking out of the room. The house is oddly quiet; Laura’s taken Cooper and Lila grocery shopping and Natasha’s left Clint in the living room where he had promised he’d try to read and relax.

“Jesus,” Natasha mutters when she sees him sitting on the floor surrounded by a stack of books from a toppled shelf that she assumes had to have fallen thanks to Clint either knocking it over forcibly or running into it, because it couldn’t have fallen by itself. She walks over and kneels down until she can see his face.

“Hey,” Natasha says quietly, putting a hand on his back. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted a book,” he murmurs, and it takes Natasha a second to catch the look in his eye. His gaze is _focused_ , but it’s not entirely there. It unnerves her, but she also recognizes it -- the half-aware state of consciousness where your brain is telling you one thing but your body is telling you another.

Natasha knows that. Natasha’s lived that. Natasha’s killed because of that.

“What book?” Natasha asks.

“The one with your names. The ones with our reports. I said I’d get it to him. He’ll kill me if I don’t.”

Natasha’s heart beats faster and she takes his face between her hands, settling herself fully on the floor.

“There are no books here, Clint,” she says quietly, holding onto his eyes. “Just me. Just me and Laura and your children. No one else.”

He blinks a few times and she watches him closely until she sees the muscles on his face grow less tense. Someone had held her like once -- _he_ had held her like this once -- and told her the same thing. No Red Room. No handcuffs. No Ivan. Just Clint and his room at SHIELD, and no one else.

“I can't do this,” Clint says as his face crumples into a discarded mask, and she strokes his hair, all of her bones aching for what she can’t help soothe away.

“You can,” says Natasha. “And you will. I did, remember?” She pauses and breathes deep, waiting until he mimics her before she continues. “Is this about what you told him? What he asked you?”

Clint looks visibly ill, the pallor on his face becoming white. “I told him about you.”

“I know,” Natasha says. “It’s okay.” It’s not, but that’s not a conversation for here and now. She can forgive him, for the moment.

“I told him because I couldn’t tell him about Laura,” he continues, his voice coming out in a jumble of words that seem to trip over themselves.

“I know,” Natasha repeats while an invisible hand takes her heart and squeezes until she can’t breathe properly. That’s not a conversation for now either, so she can forgive that, too.

“It’s not because I didn’t love you. I do. But I couldn’t protect -- I _needed_ to protect --”

She’d never asked about his therapy sessions because it was a measure of trust she’d afforded him after New York, but she’d often wondered how they went, if it had been a lot of out of body experiences or simply a lot of yelling and violent temper tantrums. There’s a balance, she knows, between being able to monitor your emotions and living in them, and she’s not quite sure where Clint’s line is currently hovering.

“I want to go.”

Natasha looks at him carefully, still holding his face. “Go where?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, his eyes straying to the door, as if he’s trying to crawl out of his own body, as if he’s searching for an escape. “I just want to get away. Can we do that? Can we just...can we drive, Tasha?”

Natasha nods slowly, drawing his face back to her own, until his pupils stop darting to the door.

“Okay. Where would you like to go, Clint?”

 

***

 

Laura leaves the kids with a neighbor and comes after Natasha calls, driving at top speed to the tiny motel located at least thirty miles from the farm.

“He wants to see you,” Natasha says, standing up from the small chair she’s dragged outside. Her face looks tired, like she hasn’t been getting enough sleep, and Laura realizes she probably hasn’t. “Just you, though.”

Laura nods, pushing hair behind her ear. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and then opens the door to the dark room.

“Sorry,” Clint apologizes when she enters. “I just...I needed to get away.”

She notices for the first time how small he looks. Clint’s never looked small -- he’s never looked particularly imposing by any means, but he’s never looked like the person Laura knows he once was as a kid. He’s dressed in his own clothes but New York had done him in; between the lack of sleep and the mental and physical overexertion, even with the time off, it had been a slow crawl to come back to himself.

“How do you feel?” Laura asks, because she doesn’t really know what else to say. She puts down the coffee cup she’s carrying, taking off her coat. “Clint?”

“He’s in the house,” Clint says in a low voice.

Laura swallows down the cry that wants to escape. “Loki isn’t in the house,” she says. “I promise.”

“Yes,” Clint says in the same dull voice. “He is. The pictures on the wall. The people I killed. The kids who won’t see their parents again. The shower and the refrigerator and the books and the reports and --”

Laura moves to the bed and takes him in his arms as he comes apart. Almost immediately, Clint’s mouth is on hers.

“Clint --”

She breaks away enough to say his name as he pushes her down on the bed. “Clint, _stop_ ,” she says sharply, and then there’s a loud bang as Natasha forces open the door. She strides forward and grabs him by the shoulders, pulling him up roughly.

It’s been days since they’ve done more than kissed, and Laura _wants_ it. Laura _craves_ it. But she doesn’t want it like this. Not this version of her husband, who only wants her because he wants to satisfy some demon voice in his brain. Not the Clint who is scared to be intimate, to be around his kids. She sits up, watching as Natasha grabs his arms, turning him towards her. After a minute of murmured silence that seems suffocating, Clint turns around again, and the fear in his eyes makes her want to cry because it’s so overpowering that she can’t see anything else.

“I want to stay here tonight,” he says, his shoulders shaking. “Just for tonight.”

Laura looks at Natasha and remembers the words she had told her so long ago.

 _We’re not trying to fix him. We’re just trying to help him_.

She nods slowly and then picks up the phone to call her neighbors again.

 

***

 

They eat breakfast next morning at a diner down the road, before going back to the farm.

“Are we going to talk about last night?” Clint asks after a coffee refill Natasha’s lost count of.

“Which part? The part where you tried to force yourself on your wife without warning, or the part where you didn’t really sleep? Again?”

Clint cringes. “Both, I guess.” He puts down his coffee cup and looks at Laura. “I didn’t mean it, Laur.”

“I know you didn’t,” Laura responds, taking a bite of egg. “And I’m not blaming you, Clint.”

He blinks in surprise. “Why?”

“Because,” Natasha breaks in, reaching for a sugar packet. “I know what this feels like.” _I know what it feels like to lose control. I know what it feels like to work your way through trauma by needing to feel._

Clint swallows down more coffee and looks around the table. “Yeah, but Laura doesn’t.”

“I do now,” Laura says.

Clint takes a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I felt like I could enjoy being out of the house, you know. Without being scared.”

“You’re not scared now,” Natasha points out. Clint shakes his head.

“No. I think...I think I need more of this.” He puts his cup down. “Not the coffee. But this.”

_Normalcy. Find the moments that matter and hold onto them. Push yourself to do the little things. Small things, like routines and breakfast food and maybe diners in the middle of nowhere. That’s recovery. That’s your start._

“We could go out for breakfast a few times a week,” Laura suggests quietly. “All of us. Even the kids.”

“I’d like that,” Clint answers, and Natasha thinks it’s the first time she’s seen him make any attempt at a smile since they fought side by side among aliens and rubble and ruined cities.

She squeezes Laura’s hand underneath the table.

 

* * *

 

“How does she save you?”

“She fights me. She punches me. She bites me.” _I’m going to kill you. I don’t want to, but I need to. I need to kill you._

“Do you want to kill her?”

_No. Yes. I don’t know. I need to obey his orders. If I don’t obey his orders, he’ll kill me. He’s a God. I’m a human. I’m worthless unless I’m doing something to appease him._

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Is this how he wanted you to kill her?”

 _Slowly. Intimately. In every way I know she fears._ “No,” he rasps. “He wanted me to take advantage of her first. But there was no time. Things went south. She attacked me. I had to defend myself. She hit me and she wouldn’t stop.”

_Come out, Barton. I know you’re in there. This isn’t you. This isn’t us. You can get out of this, I know you can, and if you don’t help me, I’m going to die trying._

“Tasha.”

_Tasha. I said her name. I said her name, and all of a sudden, there’s something that’s not blue anymore. I said her name._

“Natasha. Your partner. Why did you use that version of her name, Agent Barton?”

_Not Laura. Not Natasha. Someone else. I know that, now._

“Because I knew that it was real.” He opens his eyes and the woman with the green scarf smiles, nodding slowly.

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Clint walks downstairs while Natasha is helping Laura make dinner, Cooper settled with Lila in front of the television watching the latest Nickelodeon show. He stands in the middle of the kitchen with his hands clenched into tight fists.

“Can I see my bow?”

Natasha turns at the question and Laura’s hand freezes as she reaches for a bottle of soy sauce.

“Do you _want_ to see your bow?”

Natasha watches the way he draws himself up, almost as if he needs to convince himself he wants to say the words out loud.

“Yes. I do.”

Natasha dries her hand on her pants. “Okay,” she agrees. “Later, though. Not now.”

Clint runs a hand through his hair until it stands straight up. “Later,” he repeats, before wandering off to the living room. Laura’s shoulders tense and even out as she mixes the dumpling batter.

_We’re not trying to save him. We’re just trying to help him._

“That’s the first time, you know,” Laura says slowly. “The first time he’s willingly sat with the kids in weeks. Without me forcing him to spend time with them, because he’s afraid he’s going to snap and hurt someone.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says quietly, because she had walked into Clint’s room one day and asked to watch a movie with him, even though she didn’t really care for anything she knew he had in his DVD collection. She had pressed herself against his body and she had noticed that it was the first time she didn’t feel herself gripped by anxiety that she was going to kill him, and she remembers that feeling like it had happened an hour ago. “I know.”

After dinner, Laura takes the kids for a walk, and Natasha brings Clint’s bow down from the attic. She brings it to him in his room, closing the door behind her, sitting down on the bed and watching as he opens the big black case.

“I’m surprised you kept it here,” he says as his hands brush over the curve of the bow, the string and the wood.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Natasha asks calmly. She’s asking because she wants him to answer, because she wants him to say it, because she knows he needs to say it.

“Because I could’ve killed myself,” he says, lifting the bow out of the case. “Because I could’ve killed you. Because I could’ve killed Laura, or Cooper, or Lila.” He shakes it open and she sees Loki, movements swift and calculated and intense; he shakes it open and she sees Clint, deft and sharp and athletic and in control.

They were one and the same, now. They always had been. The parts of him that he never wanted anyone to see, the parts that had been amplified, they would always be bruises that he couldn’t wash away.

“You knew,” Natasha says. “You knew it was here somewhere, that I would’ve kept it close. You could’ve gone looking for it, but you didn’t.”

Clint falls silent, staring at his bow. “How long?”

Natasha puts her hand on his arm, handing him an arrow.

“As long as it takes,” she says, getting up and leaving him alone in the room.

 _Trust. Recovery._ They were one and the same, now.

When Laura comes back from her walk, Natasha helps her put Cooper and Lila to bed. She finishes stories and hugs them both, before changing into more comfortable clothes and going downstairs. Laura’s pressed into Clint’s side, having fallen asleep with one hand slung around his waist.

“Hey.”

Clint looks up, startled, and then relaxes. “Hey.”

She sits down on the couch, lowering herself next to him, and bumps his shoulder gently.

“Looks like you survived your first week.”

Clint nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly, raising his head and looking around the room. “Looks like I did.”

Natasha puts her hand on his leg and settles as comfortably as she can on his other side. “It’s going to be okay,” she decides as moonlight pours into the open windows of the farm house. Clint turns to her and smiles, lips stretching wide over a pale face and still visible scars. For the first time in ages, Natasha notices his vision doesn’t quite so look haunted, clear eyes and an even clearer voice.

“Yeah.” He takes her hand, and leans over to kiss Laura’s head. “It will.”


End file.
